Neville Longbottom and the Ministry's Decision
by NarrowDoorways
Summary: Neville is a nice guy so of course he'll help out an old school mate with a problem.  Unfortunately, the problem is Draco Malfoy.  Fortunately, things will work out in the end, no thanks to the ministry.  M/M, and likely mpreg.
1. Chapter 1

Neville Longbottom and the Ministry's Decision

Chapter 1

**Warnings**: This is your Death Eater custody turning into romance type story. Clichéd, but I like those and I like this couple. Regarding cannon, not much is the same after 5th year. The war is over after a nice big battle, which took place a few years after our main characters left Hogwarts.

There's going to be M/M and possibly F/F couples. Maybe some bad language. Likely an mpreg. Well, probably some bad language. Aww, who am I kidding? There'll be cussing. More warnings to come as they, well, come up.

**Summary**: Neville is a nice guy so of course he'll help out an old school mate with a problem. Unfortunately, the problem is Draco Malfoy. Fortunately, things will work out in the end, no thanks to the ministry.

**Obligatory Disclaimer**: Harry Potter is not mine, go figure. Cause nobody's ever said that before. Though, wouldn't that be something if J.K. Rowling were secretly writing fanfiction?

"You want me to what?"

"Accept custody of Draco Malfoy." Hermione Granger's words were calm, though her expression slowly became uncertain the longer Neville Longbottom stared at her without speaking. "Neville?"

Setting his tea down, Neville collapsed into the sofa. His eyes blindly took in his sitting room, the wide spaces and casually modern furniture. It was nothing like the stiff, formal rooms of Longbottom Manor, where his grandmother had raised him. Though there was plenty of rooms because he'd had thoughts of a future family when he purchased the property, none of the rooms had any likeness to the cold elegance of a pureblood home.

"Why in Merlin's name would I do that? And don't tell me he'd be more comfortable with me than with you. It may be true, but only marginally," Neville said.

Hermione laughed. "Can you imagine Malfoy's face if he looked out the window at the Muggle street I live on? Or Ron's face when I told him I was changing his 'boy's room' into a bedroom for our childhood rival?"

"No, I understand no one would win in that situation," Neville said. He rubbed a callused hand over his jaw. "But that still begs the question: why me?"

"You're a good man, Neville," Hermione said. "Right now, it's custody with a proven member of the light or Azkaban. He doesn't deserve Azkaban, and I'm sure we can agree on that?" After Neville's nod, she continued. "I've fought hard to get the sentences mitigated for those who were young in the war. People like Pansy Parkinson, who never cursed a single person, do not deserve that sort of slow death. Yes, Malfoy took the dark mark, but he almost immediately fled to France with his mother. He may never have been likeable, but he shouldn't have been dragged back illegally by aurors with an overdeveloped sense of justice."

"I know your reasonings for that, Hermione. I've supported you against the ministry. I don't agree with his sentencing either, and I'll admit I felt life in Azkaban was a bit much." He remembered the celebratory announcement in the Daily Prophet five months earlier. He'd felt disgusted at the gleeful conversations he heard around him on visits to Diagon Alley.

"Your country house is large and isolated. He couldn't get into trouble with neighbors and with your greenhouses out back, you could easily give him space."

"Well, that's true," Neville admitted. "But this wouldn't be a short intermission of my life. This is a big commitment. This is years, maybe decades, of sharing my home with someone who tormented me."

Sitting down next to him, most of her earlier nervous energy expelled now that the request was finally voiced, Hermione gripped him arm. "You're right. You might be committing the rest of your life. But it is a life on the line. Yes, a Malfoy life, but a life all the same. He needs somewhere safe. Sure, plenty of people are volunteering to house the few I'm managed to get mitigated sentences, but not all of those people have good intentions. There's no rules in this. When I pushed against the lifelong Azkaban sentences handed out to our old Slytherin schoolmates, I had Muggle court systems in mind. I thought they could live on their own, monitored but free. This . . . ownership the ministry had come up with is risky, and I don't want to see people hurt because of me."

"If something bad happened to them—"

"Which is likely," Hermione interrupted.

Nodding in agreement, Neville continued, "It wouldn't be your fault. There's the chance of good coming from this, instead of eventual insanity in a cell."

"So you'll take that chance?" Hermione pressed. "You'll agree to custody of Malfoy?"

Neville looked once more at his home. He looked at the undecorated, bachelor walls, and thought of the comfortable but plain empty bedrooms up the stairs. "Yeah. I'll take him."

He was cold. The comfort of a blanket was a wishful memory. Draco still had his robes, but they hadn't held up well against the bare stone he slept against. The edges were fraying and the seams where slowly weakening. He wondered what would happen years from now, when the clothes disintegrated around him. Would they give him new robes or would the guards leave him naked?

He was hungry. They fed him, but not often, and never much. Draco dreamed of Hogwarts food. Not the rich gluttony of Malfoy manor, but comfort foods, warm and soothing, made by the caring hands of house elves.

He hurt. His shoulder ached where the guard had gripped him. In the back of his mind, though, was relief. When the guards came, whether on a routine check of his health or a Azkaban-wide headcount or delivering a meal, the held him tightly, face pressed against the wall while they secured his cell, checking for contraband. They'd leave him bruised or scrapped, but always grateful. Grateful because they hadn't hurt him more, hadn't hurt him in the way he most feared. Sometimes, cornered in his little cell, with several men crowding him and knowing he was utterly powerless, the man holding him would lean forward and slide his erection against Draco's lower back.

He was sad. Truly, sad was an understatement, and not entirely true. Draco was frustrated with his situation, his helplessness. Angry that the aurors had gone so far to find him, without orders, and without any real reason aside from a captured Death Eater listing off names of those with Dark Marks. He despaired for his future, wallowing in apathy that was his inescapable situation. He lived in terror of what the next day would bring, whether it was dementors eroding at his sanity or the looming presence of men with power over him in every way.

Curled in the corner of his cell, his bottom long ago numb from the stone floor, his arms around his raised knees doing nothing to contain his body heat, Draco listened. The cries of other prisoners where mindless or begging. The swish of dementor robes was momentarily absent, but the sound of footsteps grew louder.

When his cell creaked open, Draco looked up. He wasn't expecting to be fed because it didn't seem that much time had passed since they'd last entered his cell with the mush he would ingest for lack of anything else, but time was flimsy with no windows for reference.

Two guards entered, while another stayed by the door. He thought about jumping to his feet to prevent their harsh hands from hauling him up, but the sudden movement would likely only anger them. It was better to stay limp and pliant, and let the guards position him as they chose.

Draco's eyes half closed as they reached down, not quite wincing but still bracing himself. Pulled to his feet, his gait faltered when they guided him not against the wall, but toward the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Neville Longbottom and the Ministry's Decision

Chapter 2

**Warnings**: This is your Death Eater custody turning into romance type story. Clichéd, but I like those and I like this couple. Regarding cannon, not much is the same after 5th year. The war is over after a nice big battle, which took place a few years after our main characters left Hogwarts.

There's going to be M/M and possibly F/F couples. Maybe some bad language. Likely an mpreg. Well, probably some bad language. Aww, who am I kidding? There'll be cussing. More warnings to come as they, well, come up.

**Summary**: Neville is a nice guy so of course he'll help out an old school mate with a problem. Unfortunately, the problem is Draco Malfoy. Fortunately, things will work out in the end, no thanks to the ministry.

**Obligatory Disclaimer**: Harry Potter is not mine, go figure. Cause nobody's ever said that before. Though, wouldn't that be something if J.K. Rowling were secretly writing fanfiction?

**Previously**: _Draco's eyes half closed as they reached down, not quite wincing but still bracing himself. Pulled to his feet, his gait faltered when they guided him not against the wall, but toward the door._

Neville stared at the man below him, kneeling at his feet. The man's hair was gray colored, though Neville knew that at twenty-five years old, it could only be dirt. He kept his head down, and was staying very, very still.

". . . as soon as you're ready, Mr. Longbottom. Mr. Longbottom?"

Directing his attention to the auror standing over the man on the floor, Neville asked, "Excuse me?"

"You can take him now," the auror repeated. The man gestured toward his feet, and the Malfoy crouched there.

"There won't be any trouble with the paperwork?" Neville asked. "I don't want to have to return."

"There shouldn't be, Mr. Longbottom. Everything was in order and your status as a fighter for the light was well documented. This was deemed a perfect match, and the Ministry thanks you for applying. It's good that we've been able to clear out Azkaban and fit former Death Eaters with people of strong characters. Hopefully this new program will impress their wrongs on them better than the dementors could."

"Yes, hopefully," Neville said. "Well, Malfoy, get up. It's time to leave now." As the auror turned away, already preparing for the next prisoner release, Neville gestured at Malfoy.

Slowly, knees cracking a protest, Malfoy stood. His eyes were still down, limp hair falling over his face. Neville had expected more fight, whether through clenched fists or snarky words, but Malfoy had been silent since he'd been led in and pushed to the floor, his hands only moving to brace himself before falling lax. Neville wasn't sure if he'd wanted more fight, because while this silent being before him was slightly unnerving, it was an improvement over the abusive brat he remembered from Hogwarts.

The two men left the room. The walk to the atrium was quick, and Neville found a floo access with relative ease. "Here," he said, pointing towards a floo powder dispenser. "Call out 'Burgeoning Green.' That will take you to my home. I will be right behind you."

Malfoy didn't move for several seconds, but as Neville was about to repeat his words, Malfoy slowly looked at him. Their eyes met, pale blue and deep brown. Neville wasn't sure what Malfoy's eyes were telling him, if eyes could relay messages. Perhaps "I'm tired"? The dark smudges under his eyes did give the gaunt face a worn look. Maybe "I'll hate your house"? But there was none of the derision Neville remembered from their school days. He couldn't tell if there was a challenge in those eyes, or fear, or acceptance. Instead, Malfoy's eyes simply . . . looked at him.

Finally Malfoy turned away, cupping a handful of floo powder and tossing it in before entering the fireplace. His worn voice, the first Neville had heard it in nearly a decade, was quiet and rough sounding.

Neville followed quickly behind Malfoy. He may have named his manor "Burgeoning Green," and it didn't feel particularly apt at the moment. He doubted that anything but his planets would flourish there for quite some time.

Draco stepped back as Longbottom left the fireplace. The man had only been seconds behind him, not that he would've been tempted to wander even if the wait had been hours. When they'd pulled his from his cell, hauled him from Azkaban, he hadn't understood. He'd wondered, briefly, if one of his father's many victims had lost patience for his death or had felt his sentence too light. Whether a beating was in his immediate future or not, he'd known the guards planned on burying him somewhere. It was shocking he'd been allowed to live for as long as he had.

But then, on the boat, stuck between Azkaban and an uncertain destiny on shore, one of the guards had leaned down and begun explaining it to him. The man told Draco about the new law and what Draco could expect from his new slave-like status. That was when he truly became afraid.

When he thought the end was near, he'd known that anything they did to him, however they violated his body or mind, he'd soon be free. He'd almost appreciated that he wouldn't spend the rest of his life trapped in Azkaban with no option but to wait. Wait for food. Wait for insanity. Wait for pain. A nearing death had been acceptable.

The half-life he was being led into terrified him. "A fighting member from the light," the guard had said. That guaranteed whoever was "gaining custody" of him, like he was some sort of wayward child, was predisposed to hate Draco. Had literally fought for his or her life in battles Draco had never seen. Despite the Dark Mark on his arm, a stupid decision he'd castigated himself from the moment it had been etched there, Draco had no fighting experience. Fleeing to France almost immediately, he hadn't grown stronger or wiser through personal struggle. He hadn't seen the horrors of war first hand. His cowardice insured that he had no reference of dealing with people with first hand reasons to want him to suffer. The guards of Azkaban had only limited contact with prisoners and for all their harsh movements and crass words, he doubted any had the stomach for real fighting. He doubted those men had the stomach to cause true, debilitating pain in others.

But this "fighting member of the light" would. This "fighting member of the light" would have plenty of reasons to hurt Draco, if only based on the mark on his arm. They would have the battle experience, know the curses to stop a person in their tracks, make it so they couldn't move or breathe or think without complete agony. And they would have experience using those curses.

Longbottom had been a surprise. That brief glimpse, as he fell to his knees, confused Draco. He remembered Longbottom as a soft boy, one who wasn't well spoken and who easily followed the directions of others. This man, though, this man had fought for his life. It was in the lines of his face, around his eyes. It was in the careful strength of his arms, in the absence of all baby fat from his torso. It was especially apparent in his stance, Longbottom's legs braced apart, powerful thighs tense but ready for quick movement.

Standing in Longbottom's living room, waiting for the man to say something, whether it be command or curse, Draco wished the guards had buried him somewhere. An anonymous grave was still in his future, but Draco dreaded what would first come from this man who had both the time and the inclination to draw his death out.


	3. Chapter 3

Neville Longbottom and the Ministry's Decision

Chapter 2

Blargh. Neville's hard to write. Draco's angst is so much smoother (at least from a writing standpoint, maybe not so much from a reading one?).

**Obligatory Disclaimer**: Harry Potter is not mine, go figure. Cause nobody's ever said that before. Though, wouldn't that be something if J.K. Rowling were secretly writing fanfiction?

**Previously**: _Standing in Longbottom's living room, waiting for the man to say something, whether it be command or curse, Draco wished the guards had buried him somewhere. An anonymous grave was still in his future, but Draco dreaded what would first come from this man who had both the time and the inclination to draw his death out._

"You smell." The words popped out of Neville's mouth almost before he finished the thought. A bright blush rushed into his cheeks, not that Malfoy noticed it, as he still stared intently at the floor. Standing in front of the floo, in the momentarily silence between him and Malfoy, Neville had noticed the smell. Normally his home, for all its sparseness, had a clean scent. The greenhouse was enclosed, but Neville always felt he could smell the earthy musk of plants even inside the house.

Malfoy smelled of stale sweat and unwashed body. His robes, what were left of them, were just as dirty as what visible skin Neville could see. Although his words were thoughtless, even cruel, Neville didn't expect Malfoy to simply . . . accept them. He waited for scathing words, even though, since the ex-Azkaban prisoner had been presented to him, nothing about Malfoy's manner had been what Neville had expected.

"Sorry, I didn't mean—" Neville let the apology trail off. Malfoy didn't seem inclined to care about his smell, or at least didn't show it. The silence lengthened. Malfoy stared at his feet, bare Neville now noticed.

"Well, come on then," Neville said, more gruffly then he intended. He felt awkward, uncomfortable with the silence of his childhood tormentor, and equally uncomfortable with the man's present state. He turned away, walking toward the stairs. The second floor was where the bedrooms where. Originally, Neville had intended to stick Malfoy in the empty guest room on the opposite side of the house from his own. Somehow, with the dirty, accepting man following him, that didn't seem right.

Stopping in front of a door, Neville turned to Malfoy. The man had been behind him as he followed Neville up the steps, but not closely. He waited several feet away, lank hair shading his eyes.

"This is the room next to mine," Neville said. He waited for a second. "Well, go on in then. There's a connected bathroom. I'll grab you some clothes and be right back."

He walked away quickly, heading for the room he'd previously picked out for Malfoy. Hermione had been prepared for Malfoy needing supplies, at least initially, so she'd given him some of Ron's things. The clothes would be too long in the legs and arms, and baggy as well given how much muscle Ron had packed on during auror training, but Neville preferred to give Malfoy someone else's things rather than his own.

Somehow, he'd felt stretched thin just extending his home to Malfoy. Giving up his clothes, however easy they may be to replace, had seemed like too much.

Dismissing his reluctance as a host, As Neville neared the door were he'd left Malfoy, he was surprised to see the man standing just inside the door.

"Here's something to change into," Neville said. He tossed them lightly, only to be taken aback by the sudden jerk from Malfoy. The clothes fell to the floor, Malfoy's arms having risen halfway in a protective gesture, not a gesture intent on catching the clothing.

Neville frowned. He knew that he knew . . .very little about what happened within Azkaban. Malfoy had been there for five months, and anything could've happening in that time, as much as Neville wished he could believe in the professionalism of the guards.

"It's okay. Those are just the clothes I said I was going to get for you." Neville stared at them on the floor, wondering if he should pick them up, but feeling that distance between him and Malfoy would be best. "You need to shower and you'll need those to change into." He briefly considered bringing up the other man's smell once more.

Slowly, with stiff movements, Malfoy reached down and grabbed the fallen clothes. He held them loosely, not seeming to pay attention to the thin sweatpants and faded t-shirt.

Neville sighed softly. He knew, the moment Hermione had introduced the topic, that having someone with a dark mark on their arm in his home would be challenging. While that was proving to be true, it was a different sort of challenging then he'd anticipated.

Longbottom was no longer the scrawny fifteen-year-old Draco remembered. He'd filled out, become a man. A strong man, too, not a pudgy, baby-faced man like he'd imagined. They'd both grown taller, almost the same height now, but Draco was lean, where Longbottom was blocky. Draco always felt smaller than other men, at least since the aurors had snatched him in France, but standing in Longbottom's house, next to a man who was healthy and strong, Draco felt not just small, but fragile and breakable, too.

He watched, just barely looking upwards through his unkempt hair, as Longbottom's frustration grew. His level of frustration was probably directly related to Draco's smell. Draco couldn't smell it, but five months of sitting in his own filth wouldn't give him a floral scent, by any means.

The clothes in his hands felt soft, though most of the texture from the well-worn material was lost on him thanks to the grime imbedded in his hands. Draco held still, holding the clothes, as he waited for Longbottom's patience to run out.

The sturdy man approached, calmly and not in a rushed manner, but Draco still felt his shoulders hunch and his muscles tense. This wasn't the cell in Azkaban, this wasn't a guard bursting in and pushing him around, but this was still someone who hated him. This was still someone with power over him. Someone who wanted him to undress.

Longbottom's hand wrapped around Draco's upper arm, not squeezing, but still firm, and guided him to the side of the room where another door stood open. Steering him into the attached bathroom, Longbottom gave him a nudge toward the shower stall.

The bathroom was smaller than the ones at Malfoy manor. The bedroom he'd just passed through was smaller than the bathroom's at Malfoy manor. It was neat though, clean. There were few personal touches, marking it a guest bathroom. The towels were a plain brown, the toiletries were neatly arranged. Everything was crisp and unclaimed.

Draco froze and waited. He kept his face averted, but still saw the shadow of Longbottom as he shuffled around the room, pulling out extra towels from the cabinet, shifting shampoo and soap nearer to the shower stall, moving a toothbrush just enough to call attention to it.

Finally, Longbottom said, "Are you going to clean up when I leave? Or do I have to help you?"

Draco shook his head, curious about which question Longbottom would think he was answering, but hoping it was the right one, hoping that he would be left alone. The figure in the corner of his eye hesitated and then left the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

He swayed with relief, not quite daring to believe that things had gone so well. His first hour with Longbottom, with "a fighter for the light," and he hadn't been cursed, hadn't been hit, hadn't been called names. Hadn't had his clothes ripped from him. It wouldn't have surprised him.

Things could have gone much differently. He could've been shoved naked into freezing water, if allowed to bathe at all.

Longbottom might still come back. Might still do some of those things. He didn't want to risk the gift of cleanliness being retracted, so he hurried into the shower, momentarily stunned at the first gush of hot water.

Draco stayed there, savoring the first pleasure he's found in five months, not washing and not hearing the knock at the door or Longbottom's voice. He didn't hear the door open, muffled under the patter of water. But he saw Longbottom's entrance, the movement swift, and swung around, betrayed and angry and hurt as he understood that things wouldn't be as wonderful as the hot water had promised, but most of all sad because he'd had such hope, if only for those few seconds.


End file.
